


Shadow's Claiomh Solais

by Ms_Julius



Series: SINF-week 3 [2]
Category: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel - Michael Scott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13034799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Julius/pseuds/Ms_Julius
Summary: "When he had last met the Warrior, she had pushed him through a door. A closed door."





	Shadow's Claiomh Solais

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of SINF-week 3, prompt was "Magician".  
> This work is inspired by the minor scene in the book where Machiavelli recalls his last encounter with the Maiden Warrior Scathach.

The staircase was dimly lighted. If Machiavelli squinted his eyes, he could barely make out the outlines of the wooden stairs, and the oaken railing framing them. An old fitted carpet, worn out by the years long gone, lowered the sound of his careful steps, the eerie silence in the empty house ringing even more notably.

He knew the building was not completely empty. In the air, he could sense a smell caused by another living person’s aura. He took a deep breath, trying to determinate where the source of the scent was at the moment. His hearing was not what it used to be, despite of his awakened senses, and he had to rely wholly in his eyes and nose in his attempts of locating the resident of the supposedly deserted house.

A faint flicker of a shadow caught his attention, causing him to stop at his tracks. Slowly, step by step, he moved forward towards the dark platform at the top end of the stairs. There was a door, left ajar just by few inches. As he climbed higher, the dusky smell grew stronger, followed by a trail of grey tendrils of an aura.

Just as he set his hand on the handle of the aged door, a voice rang out from the darkness. He halted once again, straining his ears in a vain hope of getting an impression of where the sound was coming from.

“Niccolò Machiavelli. You know, you really shouldn’t have any business of being in here. What do I own the pleasure?”

Without moving a muscle, the Italian closed his eyes, sighing silently. “Warrior Maid of the Shadows. How predictable. I am ashamed of myself for not realizing who the intruder was sooner.” Machiavelli squeezed the doorknob harder, his knuckles turning white. “It has been a long time. How have you been?”

A harsh laughter danced around the vast hall. “I have been great! Just dandy! And now I am about to be even more satisfied.” 

There was a moment of silence before the voice continued. “Quite a collection you have here, Machiavelli. Especially this fine Irish sword here. Caught my eye immediately when I saw it. I believe it belonged to one of the greatest warriors who ever lived.”

A stream of cold sweat was starting to creep down on the man’s neck. “I acquired it through honest means.” 

Another rumbling laugh burst out, this one having a darker tilt in it. Machiavelli felt his fingers shake where they were curled around the knob. 

“I know how you got it, Italian. And now I am taking it back.”

Before Machiavelli could get his voice out, the door busted open, throwing his off balance as a young-looking woman with startlingly bright red hair rushed past him to the stairs. Instinctively , the man reached out and got a grip of the fleeing woman’s jacket, the thick fabric creaking as he clung to it. He could see the small sword, decorated with complicated engravings, in the woman’s pale hand, the metal shining gently in the dark hallway.

Not slowing down the slightest, the warrior spin around while running, set her whole weight on her left foot and kicked out with all the power her brawny body could muster. 

It was a hefty kick. The leather boot hit him square to the chest, the air escaping from his lungs with a huff as he fell backwards through the solid wooden door, the splinters digging deep inside of his skin. His right shoulder took a heavy blow as well, leaving it aching like it was smoothed over with burning flames. Machiavelli couldn’t do much more than cradle his broken arm against his poignant chest, tears of pain gathering around his closed eyelids.

The shadow of the woman hopped over the railing, and through his own pained breathing Machiavelli could hear her boots hitting the hard-wood floor as she made her way to the exit, the massive front door bumping loudly as she let it close behind her.

Moaning quietly, the Italian pushed himself upwards, taking in shallow gulps of air as he tried to get his unsteady legs to work with him. Clasping the now numb arm tightly to his side, he leaned against the wall. There were vivid spots of color flickering around his field of vision, and with a calming exhale Machiavelli closed his eyes and let his anger fume out of him, the thoughts of a revenge already forming inside of his vexed mind.

As the worst pain started to wear off, he sat back down on the dusty carpet, letting his eyes slip open. He blinked couple of times, yet his gaze remaining unfocused as he surrendered his bloodthirsty thoughts in the care of the more critical part of his brain.

Normally he would had already called out for all of his subordinates, ordering them to search the whole city and to deliver the perpetrator into his custody. After that, he’d had used all the means necessary to get the woman to reveal the location of the artifact she had taken, and when enough time would have passed, he would have ‘disposed’ the criminal in a proper manner which he had picked up in his year in ancient Italy.

But this was no ordinary thief he was dealing with. 

Sighing again, the gray-haired man stood up, starting his slow, stumbling walk to downstairs. His unharmed hand gripped the railing, and with shaky steps he managed to get back at the door leading to the small side alley near the river Arno. 

As he walked alongside of the of the roaming stream, he lifted his tired eyes to gaze up at the stars above. 

Not even the sword of Claiomh Solais was worth of challenging the Demon Slayer.


End file.
